Who controls the past
by aquamarine-jo
Summary: Mitchell and Herrick and now Wyndam - how do the histories of these three very different vampires cross and recross? What effect have they had on each other's pasts and futures?
1. Chapter 1

**Who controls the past... **

**London, 1933**

He had never seen him look scared before.

He and Herrick had been through a lot together. Since they met on the battlefields of the Great War, Mitchell's propensity to get into trouble had always kept his creator on his toes. Murder and mayhem all around them but somehow Herrick had always found them a way out, never letting that genial smile slip. The smile that never quite reached his eyes.

But this was different.

"You're surely not still sulking about Paris?" Mitchell drained his champagne glass and waved it at the waiter for a refill, ignoring the tightening of Herrick's face at his uncouth behaviour.

Resisting the urge to remind his young protégée of his manners Herrick sipped from his own glass.

"I never sulk; I leave all that to you. Why would I possibly be upset about your wanton recruitment? The girl, well, maybe I could understand her but the waiter? What are we going to do with him? With that moustache we can hardly hide him away"

He raised a hand and a hovering barman leapt to his side.

"This champagne is not vintage. Bring us brandy instead, the best you have"

"Of course Sir, right away"

Unless engaged in – shall we say - less than gentlemanly pursuits, Herrick preferred to stay at Claridges on his trips to London. Always immaculately turned out, he spent lavishly and tipped well and accepted the resulting excellent service as merely his due. Typically, the brandy appeared almost instantly and the champagne and glasses were whisked away. Although not before Mitchell had managed to finish most of it, less fussy about its vintage status.

This lordly behaviour was nothing out of the ordinary for Herrick but Mitchell still felt that something was wrong. Herrick seemed tense and wary and although he was wearing one of his perfectly tailored evening suits he was without a fresh flower in his lapel and his shoes lacked their normal mirror polish. For Herrick this lack of standards was the sartorial equivalent of taking tea at the Ritz in his pyjamas! Unheard of. Herrick glanced over his shoulder and Mitchell realised that he kept looking at the entrance to the bar.

"Come on" he said, leaning over towards him to make sure Herrick knew he was serious "What's up? And don't bother with the recruitment bullshit because I know there is something going on. Is it about me?"

"Oh, the unquenchable arrogance of youth" Herrick chuckled; despite his antics Mitchell would always amuse him. "I'd love to say no but sadly you are right for once. We're waiting for someone. Someone who suggested we meet with him on the way back from Paris."

"Well, you don't look too thrilled about it... and since when did you listen to _suggestions_ from anyone?"

Mitchell was more puzzled, not less at this explanation. Since they had been together he had seen that Herrick was always the leader in any vampire gathering; even though others were older and more established, his ambitions were clear to all and few dared to stand against him. Herrick had no compunction about dealing with his competitors in the most final way and no sense of loyalty to other vampires. He felt no tribal allegiance; it just got in the way. The London leader had challenged him when he saw Herrick and Mitchell rampaging around London, expecting him to clean up after them. Herrick had dealt with him, or rather he had had Seth do it rather than risk staining his gloves. His successor was more wary but Herrick was just biding his time to inflict even more misery. Just for fun.

Who or what - could be making ambitious, amoral Herrick so very uncomfortable?

They sat in silence for long minutes, Herrick getting ever more tense, staring at the door, perched on the very edge of his chair. Mitchell started to feel the tension too, despite his casual exterior, slumped back in his own deep, cushioned chair. His increasing disquiet and worry about what was coming was kept well hidden and it didn't stop him making inroads into the excellent brandy.

Finally Herrick shot to his feet, brushing down his jacket and smoothing his hair, as a slim man, plainly, almost severely dressed came striding towards them. Ignoring Herrick's wide, welcoming smile and outstretched hand he sat beside Mitchell, leaving Herrick stranded, completely wrong footed.

"Wyndam, Edgar Wyndam. And you must be John, how very lovely to meet you. Oh, and do sit down Billy for goodness sake; you do make the place look untidy"

He held out a hand to Mitchell and quite instinctively he took it, realising too late the strength in those elegant fingers. Wyndam looked over Mitchell, assessing him, missing nothing. Compared to the dapper Herrick, Mitchell was, to be charitable, less polished. He started out well intentioned and reasonably presentable but after a couple of drinks his hair got itself rumpled and his collar seemed to open of its own accord. His tie had disappeared at about the time the brandy appeared. Uncomfortable under such detailed scrutiny he tried to pull his hand away but it was impossible. With no visible effort at all Wyndam held him in a grip of steel.

He looked Mitchell in the eyes, icy blue eyes meeting worried brown ones and Mitchell felt a strange sensation. Unable to look away from those pale compelling eyes it was almost as if Wyndam was in his head, thumbing though his most personal memories. Images flashed through his mind unbidden, images not under his control, of people and places he thought he had forgotten and others he wished he could forget. Now pictures from his human past hurried in, his childhood and those too brief days of manhood before the trenches of the Great War. No one else could have known of these places, these events and he had always resisted revisiting them, not wanting to taint them with his new form.

Suddenly he realised that he had been released, Wyndam had turned away and he was sat back in his chair, feeling as though hours had passed. But that couldn't be the case; Herrick was still settling himself in his own chair, fussily checking his trousers were not creased. What had happened?

He tried to speak but only a stutter, almost a groan, emerged and Wyndam looked at him, putting his finger to his lips.

"Later, John, later. It will all become clear"

Wyndam's attention turned to Herrick who was smiling ingratiatingly, desperate for some attention, gazing on Wyndam with an odd mixture of hero worship and fear.

"So Billy, I hear you've been stirring up trouble. Some things will never change."

* * *

><p><strong>London, 1890<strong>

Herrick had taken to vampirism like the proverbial duck to water and the evil human he had been had become a truly wicked immortal. He loved it; it felt so right, so nice – what he had unknowingly been waiting for all through his miserable human life.

He'd met child-vampire Hetty when she posed as an abandoned orphan, duping Herrick into selling her to a brothel. After he was reborn as a vampire and she told him about his new world and all its opportunities, they carried on the ploy for fun, travelling between the many brothels and greedy Madams of London. Herrick collected a pretty fortune in gold as they sold poor, pretty, orphaned Hetty again and again. And let's be honest, a few dead prostitutes would never really bother the authorities.

They were savouring the comforts of the latest brothel – a small, select house for specialised tastes - where Hetty had achieved her highest price yet. They had spared the cook and the maid on the promise that they would serve them the best the kitchens and cellars could offer before fleeing but the Madam and her three girls had fallen to the ravenous vampires.

Satisfied, replete, Herrick was stretched out in front of the fire, toying with the last drops of blood in a crystal glass – one of his new pleasures. His feet were propped comfortably on the sprawled bodies of the three dead women as he watched Hetty arrange the Madam's body in a chair, looking for all the world like a child with a life sized doll.

Herrick had already leaned to be wary of Hetty – she may have been his maker but there was a distance between them and being trapped forever in the body of a child had made Hetty an ageless devil. Cruel and unforgiving, she played with her new offspring like a cat and Herrick was getting restive. He wanted to be free to choose his own dark path but Hetty could teach him and he was desperate to learn all he could from her before she discarded him and moved on to a new distraction. He could put up with her cruelty for a time if it was in exchange for valuable information; after all he had known far worse in the past. He still bore the scars.

She had only let slip a few secrets and it seemed to Herrick that the older the vampire the further they were from humanity. Gradually the emotions die away and a cold, hardness takes their place. Some react with a constant search for amusement and distraction, like Hetty, while some retreat from the world and others – well, that was a story she hadn't told him yet.

The door opened and a man entered – Herrick was getting to his feet to challenge the intruder but Hetty got there first.

"Edgar! My darling, my angel" she howled in delight. "At last!" She threw herself into his arms and Wyndam caught her, held her close and spun her round and round, as they laughed together.

"Let me look at you... as beautiful as ever, and just as terrible!"

Wyndam kissed Hetty on both cheeks as Herrick watched, holding her close. To a casual glance it could be a doting uncle and spoiled niece but he could see there was more. The embraces were closer than a family would countenance, he held her like a woman, not a child, and the way that Hetty stroked Wyndam's face was possessive and sensuous. It was almost as if...

"Herrick – don't be so disgracefully prudish" scolded Hetty, seeing his disquiet. "This is my maker, my own Edgar, and let me assure you that this body puts a stop to what you are imagining with such puerile delight, more's the pity!"

"Edgar, this is William Herrick – my new baby." She whispered something in Wyndam's ear and he laughed.

Herrick felt awkward, Hetty and Wyndam made him feel gauche and unwanted but Wyndam was something that Herrick didn't recognise. Somehow he drew the eye and held it and Herrick couldn't look away from him, he was strangely fascinating. Herrick's vampire senses were still young but even he could see that Wyndam was immensely powerful in a way that he envied from the core of his being. Wyndam gave him the last piece of his vampire puzzle and he knew now where he was going, what he would be – with or without Hetty.

He would be powerful.

"So Billy – a new born child! How jolly!" Wyndam's voice was patronising and he and Hetty were looking at Herrick as if he were some kind of experiment. Interesting for the moment but doomed to certain failure.

"It's William or Herrick, if you please" he replied, trying to stay polite but sounding rather servile. He hated being called Billy; that was what they had called him in the workhouse but Wyndam just laughed again. He surveyed Herrick who forced himself to stand straight and endure the scrutiny when all his senses told him he should run. Herrick's ill gotten gold had bought him the best clothes he could find, a sparkling watch and chain and a trip to a gentleman's barber but under that cold gaze he felt wanting. His suit and linen were too new, too perfect, far from the bespoke perfection of Wyndam's plain attire. Everything he had been so pleased with in his dark new world now felt tawdry and cheap. Spoiled.

"You were quite right my darling, he is an amusing prospect. So needy, so desperate for attention and authority – and so unlikely to ever get it" Wyndam let Hetty gently down to the ground and without seeming to move was suddenly beside Herrick, taking him by the throat and lifting him off the floor.

"Just beware, little Billy. I can see who you are, all that desire and twisted need. I can see your ambition and your dreams of grandeur. I don't want to find you building empires, gathering troops. I don't ever want to have to come and find you. But I will if you make me and I can assure you that you will not be pleased to see me."

He let Herrick fall, dusting off his hands as he turned away. Herrick leapt after him but although his strength had increased since he became a vampire it was useless. Wyndam caught his arm and threw him across the room, barely even looking at him and leaving Herrick humiliated and crumpled in the corner. Hetty danced over and hugged him, putting her lips to his ear.

"Bye bye baby Billy. I'm bored of you now, you dull little man"

Wyndam took Hetty in his arms again, her little arms locked tightly around his neck and he carried her away, still laughing together. They left Herrick raging with a desire for revenge coupled with a terror that Wyndam would indeed come to find him.

He never saw Hetty again but her mocking laughter stayed with him always. He had known none of his human family, and the loss of the only mother he had ever known made him even more determined to succeed on his own terms.

Wyndam, however, he would see again. He would come and find him...

* * *

><p><strong>London, 1933<strong>

Herrick was blustering, he had no idea which particular piece of trouble Wyndam meant – frankly, there was a lot to choose from. He blathered on as Wyndam watched him, missing nothing, and while Mitchell watched Wyndam. He was recovering from Wyndam's examination and sat up straighter, but when he reached for the brandy Wyndam was there first, pouring him a generous measure. Mitchell hadn't seen him move and even Herrick seemed startled and finally stuttered to a halt.

"Billy. Enough. No more killing the other chiefs. I know about London and I know about the others. I allowed you Bristol, be satisfied with that."

Wyndam pointed at Herrick, face like stone.

"And no more about heirs. You know the rules. And you know the punishment"

Wyndam settled back, enjoying Herrick's sudden terror. He did indeed know the punishment for creating an heir without the Old One's knowledge and approval and for the first time Mitchell could remember Herrick was unable to speak, much to Wyndam's amusement.

"Oh Billy, do be a man about this, you will persist in making an exhibition of yourself. Which reminds me, Hetty sends her love, of course. Why, I have no idea, you are a sore disappointment to her.

"Now leave us. I want to talk to John"

Turning away from Herrick, dismissing him without another thought, Wyndam focused his attention on Mitchell. For the first time he smiled fully, his face transformed, open and attractive and Mitchell couldn't help but respond. The stern authority had gone – this was someone he desperately wanted to know. Wyndam poured more brandy for Mitchell who was well on the way to being drunk despite his legendary capacity for alcohol and he didn't notice that Wyndam barely sipped at his own glass.

"Tell me John, I'm curious. What is a man like you doing with a man like Herrick?"

Mitchell knocked back the last of the brandy. He felt as drunk as he had ever been as a vampire and vaguely he knew that it wasn't just the alcohol. He always had a tendency to be indiscrete when drinking but he felt safe with Wyndam. He wanted to tell him everything.

He started to talk about his recruitment, how he bargained with Herrick, confiding all his fears and hopes to those kind blue eyes. Wyndam let him talk, nodding, making encouraging sounds, keeping Mitchell focused on him alone.

He told him of how the urge to hunt and kill and drink overwhelmed him, it made him unstoppable, and how Herrick encouraged his rampages, urging him on to greater and greater excesses. He found himself telling Wyndam something he had confided to no one before, something he had barely even admitted to himself.

"Sometimes it repulses me, the blood and the death... Sometimes I wonder if there is another way."

Wyndam leant over closer to him, so close that Mitchell could smell his cologne. A fragrance that made him think of ages past, an earthiness, a hint of dark forests; not unpleasant but unusual and intoxicating. It was like nothing Mitchell had ever known and it seemed to be coming from Wyndam's skin, a part of him rather than some artificial creation of chemicals.

"There are many ways, more than you could begin to imagine but not while you are young. To become strong you need blood, to understand life you must see death and to become human again... well, that takes many centuries. But that isn't your path. You were born to struggle John, it will be hard but you will find much of worth along the way. Your destiny is tied to Herrick's, if you could break away from him now then maybe... but he won't let you free and in some strange way you need him too. You need to see his path to know your own."

Wyndam's voice was low and intimate and Mitchell had no awareness of his surroundings anymore, completely in thrall to this strange man. Right now he would follow him anywhere, do anything he asked... anything, without question. If he had looked up he would have seen Herrick pacing, worried about Mitchell or possible more worried about what he might say or hear but Herrick was very far from his thoughts.

Wyndam stood and offered his hand to Mitchell again, this time in farewell. Mitchell took it warily, waiting for something to happen but his mind was left untouched, although echoes of Wyndam remained among his memories. Wyndam's skin was cool and dry, but his touch sent a heat through Mitchell's body, a feeling of belonging and comfort and safety and it was a physical wrench when Wyndam turned away, taking that warmth with him.

"We will meet again, John. A time is coming when you will need me and I will be there for you. There will also be a time when you think that I am the very last thing you need."

So many questions. Mitchell didn't know where to start as he watched Wyndam leave. What he really wanted to do was run after him; beg him to take him with him, to ask all those questions even if Wyndam would not answer. He was getting to his feet, ready to follow when Herrick bustled over and pushed him back into his chair, his face red and angry.

"What did you say to him? What did you tell him about me?"

"Nothing! Jesus! What's wrong with you?" Mitchell wanted to stall Herrick while he collected his thoughts, pushing away the impulse to follow Wyndam, for the moment at least. "Just get me another drink will you?"

It didn't take long for Herrick to organise more brandy but it was enough time for Mitchell to decide. He would tell Herrick nothing. Although the strange euphoria he had felt with Wyndam had faded as soon as he walked away, Mitchell could still feel those blue eyes looking straight into his soul.

Not waiting for Herrick to start questioning him Mitchell attacked first.

"Who the hell was that guy? How do you know him?"

Herrick looked away, avoiding Mitchell's eyes.

"Wyndam is one of the Old Ones. I don't know him well."

"Rubbish. He knew you, and who is Hetty? Come on man – you know I'll get it out of you in the end. And if you don't tell me I'll go and ask him myself!"

At that Herrick laughed, the vision of Mitchell facing up to Wyndam and demanding answers amused him and he finally relaxed. Just a little.

"Right. Of course you will. So... Wyndam. I truly don't know much but I have heard talk. He's unimaginably old, they say he has been a vampire for over a thousand years. Others say he can read minds, some say he's so old he is human but no one can agree. He can be good or evil as he pleases. The Old Ones don't rule him but he can act in their name – now, that's an odd relationship.

"It's well to be scared of him – he's dangerous. He's more powerful than you can imagine and it's said he can bend people to his will. He only shows up when there is going to be trouble, and he seems to know before it happens.

"I've even heard talk that everyone he meets, men and women, human and vampire, become utterly besotted with him, 'in love' as they say, but I can assure you that is rubbish – I can't abide the man."

He had neatly avoided the subject of Hetty and although Mitchell noticed and made a mental note to come back to her, he let it go for now. He was far more interested in Wyndam.

Every word that Wyndam had said to him was engraved in Mitchell's mind – but there was something more than that. He looked at Herrick and saw something different; he could see the Herrick that Wyndam saw. Not his mentor and leader, his partner in blood and death, but the little man desperate for power, jealous of Mitchell's charisma and effortless charm and it made him wonder. Was it time he left him and found a new way? Did he really need Herrick at all?

At least he had some uses, Mitchell thought as he poured yet another glass of the truly excellent brandy! Silly Billy, he chuckled to himself...

And how strange, he could suddenly smell that distinctive heady aroma he had smelled on Wyndam – could someone else use the same cologne? He looked around, there was no one there but Herrick and he was strictly a soap and water man. Mitchell inhaled deeply and felt a glow of satisfaction at his decision.

He would manage just fine without Herrick.


	2. Chapter 2

More introspective, lots of angst, blood, magic and a Maserati! Part two of (probably) four. Please let me know what you think. Of course Being Human and the characters belong to Toby Whithouse, I'm just borrowing them...

The title comes from the George Orwell quote: _Who controls the past controls the future: who controls the present controls the past._

**Who controls the past... **

**London, 1967**

She wasn't struggling anymore; her heart was slowing and as her final breath left her it sounded like a sigh.

Mitchell let the lifeless body drop, he'd already lost interest. He used to feel invincible after he had drunk but not anymore. It didn't matter how many he killed, it could never make him feel better or less alone. There could never be enough blood.

He could hear voices in the next room, the girl's flatmates would be talking about them, how lucky she was that Mitchell had singled her out and speculating on what they were doing. As a country boy, born at the end of the nineteenth century it was still a wonder to Mitchell that women had become so forward, practically throwing themselves at him. Although he certainly wasn't complaining...

Stepping over the slumped body, he pulled his jeans back on, noticing but not caring that his chest and arms were smeared with her blood and his. She had long sharp nails and had scratched him in both pleasure and desperation. He knew he must look terrifying but all he cared about was more blood. The sound of the heartbeats and the hot, dark smell of blood flowing in the other room were drowning out all reason. Anyway, they wouldn't be looking at him for long.

"That didn't take long then, have you worn her out?"

"I really hope you're not trying to sneak out on her!"

The girls laughed drunkenly together, empty glasses and wine bottles on the table in front of them and it was a few moments before they looked at Mitchell properly. They saw blood and the black eyes and before they could react he was on them – he caught up the closest and went straight for her throat, desperate for more blood, ripping the flesh apart. Still not enough and he dropped her, moving onto the third and last who had hardly moved, not able to process what she was seeing and beyond scared. With this one he took his time, piercing the pulsing artery carefully, feeling the hot blood flood into his mouth, drinking her life to the very last drop.

Mitchell sat back, waiting for the feeling, the fullness and satisfaction of the blood and though it came, it was muted, not the overwhelming ecstasy he used to feel. The alcohol in the blood made him feel slow and frustrated at the feeling of... wrongness. Mitchell despaired. What more could he do? Why wasn't it working? For a moment he missed Herrick – he always seemed to know the answer, always tried to make Mitchell happy even though it was really for his own ends. Walking away from him had been the easiest thing, but staying away was too hard. Maybe he should go back to Bristol, maybe this time he could convince Herrick to help but it was an admission of failure and he knew how much Herrick would crow.

Had he burned all his bridges with Herrick? Maybe, maybe not. He had not said goodbye, he just walked away. He had stayed with Herrick for many years, Herrick made sure he had everything he desired. Mitchell had gone from a stern patriarchal family into the army and then into Herrick's care. He'd never had to be independent; someone had always cared for him. It was only when the country started to change – the social revolution of the 1960s – that Mitchell felt he needed to escape. One night he'd packed a small bag and hitched a lift to London, so sure he would find his feet. Swinging London was bound to have a place for a vampire.

Mitchell had floundered around for over a year and had not found any way at all to survive. He had tried not to drink but the agony was unbearable and he found after just a few weeks he had killed without conscious thought, waking in a dark backstreet with the body of a tramp. That had scared him. He thought the solution might be a willing victim but how to find them? He managed to find a girl who professed to want to die but when the moment came she fought for the life she thought she had regretted. He tried not to kill, to taste, and to take just enough blood to quell the cravings but he couldn't stop.

There was nothing left for him, he wished he was dead but he was too scared to take that step himself. All that was left was blood, more and more blood, a trail of death that got ever longer.

Mitchell sat and sobbed among the broken bodies, not grieving for them but for himself. For the loss of his humanity and his despair for his future.

But what was that? Mitchell realised that there was something different in the room – had he left someone alive? He could smell a scent, a fragrance that his mind welcomed although in its befuddled state he couldn't quite remember why. Squinting into the darkest corner of the room he saw a familiar motionless figure and Mitchell remembered the man who had touched his soul and then walked away, so many years ago. How long had he been there? How long had he been watching him?

A voice called out from the hall, it was the last flatmate returning. Mitchell had forgotten that she had gone out to get fish and chips – and more wine if she could find anywhere open.

"Ta-dah!"

She waved the bottle and the bag of food as she came through the door, dropping them as she took in the carnage. She looked at Mitchell, a tearstained mess covered in blood, and at the bodies of her friends in frozen horror. After long seconds her mouth opened and she was about to scream but Wyndam was there before the sound could emerge.

One arm round her waist and a hand over her mouth Wyndam put his lips to her ear and whispered, shushing her, calming her and as Mitchell watched in fascination her body relaxed and she smiled. The most beautiful smile. She seemed to forget the dead bodies of her friends and she turned within Wyndam's arm, lifting her arms to cling tightly to him and bringing her mouth to his. He kissed her, briefly and gently, as his arm tightened and he lifted her off her feet. Her eyes closed and she nuzzled into his neck, deep in the intoxicating scent that Mitchell remembered so well. He felt the strangest sensation – he was jealous. He wanted to be that close to Wyndam, he wanted to be where she was. Wyndam looked at Mitchell over her shoulder and smiled, his blue eyes flashed black but stayed fixed on Mitchell as he bent to her neck and pierced her skin with his fangs.

It was over in an instant. She moaned, just once, and then Wyndam laid her drained, dead body on the sofa, closing her eyes and smoothing back her long hair.

Clear eyed again Wyndam showed none of the blood drunk satisfaction of the other vampires Mitchell knew, that feeling he was so desperate to recapture. Mitchell had only ever seen a few other vampires feed, although some showed no scruples about feeding in the presence of their peers. For Mitchell, blood and sex were inescapably intertwined and inevitably that meant he had fed alone. Herrick, he remembered, was particularly secretive – Mitchell couldn't remember ever having seen him drink. Hunt? Yes. Kill? Often. But not drink.

Seeing Wyndam kill felt like an initiation, a shared experience that brought them closer and Mitchell was sure that Wyndam had been quite deliberate in allowing him to watch. Mitchell's victims always fought when the end was clear but with just a few whispered words this girl had welcomed Wyndam and the speed at which he had drained her body of blood was astonishing.

As Wyndam walked over to where Mitchell was still slumped on the floor Mitchell noticed a tiny trace of blood on his lower lip, the only outward sign of what had happened. As Wyndam bent down to him he reached out to lift it away with his finger, licking it clean and wishing it was Wyndam's blood he was tasting.

Wyndam stretched out a hand to Mitchell to pull him to his feet, not quite suppressing a moue of disgust at the state he was in. Face covered in blood, snot and tears, blood streaked body and tattered jeans, Mitchell did not look at his best.

"Go and clean up" he instructed. "Then we can talk."

Mitchell obeyed, heading for the bathroom without question. Instead of his usual quick whisk round with a damp flannel he ran a bath and washed thoroughly using the soaps and shampoos lined up all around the edge of the tub. Dried off, he dressed in the black suit that hung on the back of the door – not questioning where it had come from. He even put on the tie.

Wyndam was sitting in the same chair he started out in, legs crossed, long fingers steepled in front of his face – still as a statue. Mitchell realised that he flat was clean and tidy, the bodies were gone. How? He had heard nothing but Wyndam obviously had everything under control.

Cleaned up, suited and booted, Mitchell obviously passed muster and Wyndam stood.

"Come. I think we can find a more salubrious venue"

Without checking that Mitchell was with him Wyndam went down the stairs to the entrance hall of the flats and out to the street at a speed Mitchell couldn't match. At the kerb sat a Maserati Mistral, immaculate, shiny and the brightest possible red. Wyndam got in, started the engine with a roar and sat tapping the steering wheel in impatience as Mitchell found his way outside and climbed into the passenger seat. As the car took off Mitchell couldn't help think it was the most unlikely vehicle for Wyndam. A man who was so still, whose clothes, although stylish, were subdued and seemingly designed not to draw attention. This car was, well, so very noticeable. He glanced over to see that Wyndam was smiling at the admiring glances he was getting and Mitchell had to reassess what he thought of him yet again. He drove far too fast, even for Mitchell, and after hurtling through gaps in the traffic that were surely too small for the car they stopped in a quiet leafy square.

Wyndam was out of the car and up the steps of a grand house before Mitchell could catch up, unused to being the one following.

The house tuned out to be a private club and they were soon seated in a dark bar, at a corner table where Wyndam could survey without being easily seen. Mitchell was a little overawed; this level of luxury was new to him. Even when Herrick was playing the little lord he had never aspired to such unashamed opulence.

Despite his earlier feeding – or perhaps because of it - Mitchell was still edgy and he could hear heartbeats and blood all around him, tantalising him, calling to him, reminding him he was a failure. It made him jumpy and he snapped at Wyndam.

"Why am I here? What do you want with me? Did Herrick send you?"

Wyndam's face changed in an instant – the pleasant half smile as he surveyed the room turning stern and hard.

"Herrick? Herrick would never dare to send me anywhere." His voice was quiet but had an icy cold fury that made Mitchell flinch.

"It is a measure of my interest in you that I am here despite your connection to that odious little man. Now try and behave like the man you want to be instead of the child that Herrick has raised."

Mitchell's instant reaction to this was to pout and slump sulkily in his chair but another look at Wyndam made him think better of it and he sat up. A silver pot of coffee was placed on the table alongside red wine and glasses. Wyndam reached across and poured coffee, pushing the cup and saucer across to Mitchell.

"Drink this and sober up, the whole pot if you need to. I will not talk to you until you can listen to me with your full attention."

He sat and watched as Mitchell finished the pot, so still except for occasional small sips from his wine glass. The coffee was hot and strong and Mitchell felt his head clear and the sound and smell of the blood that had so tempted him dulled enough to be ignored. He put the cup down for the final time and reached across to the wine, intending to pour himself a glass but Wyndam just raised an eyebrow and he thought better of it. Already he wanted to please him, to do just what Wyndam wanted. A waiter put a bottle of Perrier on the table beside Mitchell, and he obediently poured that instead.

"Let us begin again." Wyndam beckoned Mitchell to sit closer to him, letting him catch a whisper of his compelling scent.

"What do I want with you? That will come later but first you will want to know who I am. I'm sure little Billy has said his rather florid piece so I will give you an opportunity that few have ever had. You can ask me questions."

Where to start? Mitchell had so many questions and as he suspected Wyndam's patience was limited; he had to ask the important ones first.

"Herrick told me you had been a vampire for over a thousand years" he began, carefully and politely. "Is that really true?" He found it hard to comprehend such a stretch of time, he had been recruited only fifty years ago and he was already tired of his life.

"Time has no meaning when you reach a great age. A thousand years, two thousand, or more – it is all the same once you have passed nine centuries of darkness. Until you have survived four hundred years you are just a child, after that you are something else and if you can reach nine hundred then you will change again and can live as long as you please." He smiled, and Mitchell felt that strange attraction again.

"Suffice it to say that you will not have met anyone older. Now, what else do you want to know?"

Those blue eyes fixed on Mitchell seemed to wipe away all the questions, all the things that puzzled him as if they had never mattered at all. All he could think of was why? Why did he want to please, want to be with Wyndam so much when he was so cold and so terrifying? But could also be so warm, so welcoming.

"How do you... Can you make... Do people fall in...? Why do...?" Mitchell stumbled to a halt. Just exactly how should he phrase this? Wyndam laughed; an attractive sound that made heads turn and both men and women look at him, ignoring Mitchell entirely which was a new experience for him. If he hadn't been quite so fixated on Wyndam he would have been piqued to have been so overlooked.

"I see that Billy has been telling tales, he told you I can charm the birds from the trees didn't he?" He laughed again. "Herrick doesn't understand; he's jealous of anyone with influence. He's jealous of you John, of your charisma and charm and I can see in you want the beginnings of what I have now. Do you really believe I can read minds, make people want me? Make them love me?"

Well yes, actually I do thought Mitchell but he wasn't able to say it. Wyndam was looking at him and just as he remembered, those piercing blue eyes could see into his soul, to his deepest memories, his hopes and fears. He felt a warmth from Wyndam, a need to be closer and he leaned towards him. Wyndam put one cool hand lightly on Mitchell's face, fingers entwined in his curls and the last of his resistance fell away.

He put his own hand to Wyndam's throat, raised his mouth to Wyndam's and he kissed him, desperate to be closer, a feeling of utter rightness filling his heart. He had never felt so close to anyone before. He was lost in the feeling and the strange, heady scent that came with Wyndam engulfed him.

Wyndam lifted his hand from Mitchell's skin and the connection was broken. An appalled Mitchell flung himself back, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand to Wyndam's amusement. What was he doing? He'd never even thought of touching another man like that before.

"So, John. Did I force you?"

Aware that Wyndam was laughing at his confusion Mitchell looked around, horrified at what he had done and worried that someone had seen. No one seemed to be paying him any attention at all and now he looked there were couples and groups of all kinds. Two men drinking champagne at a nearby table winked at him and lifted their glasses in comradely salute but Mitchell scowled and looked back to Wyndam.

"John. You should not worry, I'm not interested your body, just your mind." Wyndam was reassuring and he passed Mitchell a glass of wine. He drank it down in one, feeling he'd earned it.

"When you have lived for so long you don't divide people into men and women, vampire and human, you look at what they are, their essence. You are too young to understand but one day you will..." Wyndam grimaced and stopped suddenly as if he had remembered something.

"One day what?" Mitchell wanted to know but he would not complete the sentence and there was a sudden sadness that darkened his blue eyes.

"You needed to know that we are connected, that you are safe with me. I could have made you do anything I choose, I could make you dance like a puppet but I will not. And you must believe it." Wyndam looked into Mitchell eyes and he had a deep certainly that Wyndam meant him no harm. That he was safe.

"I'm here now because I know you are despairing of your future and I want to help. If you will allow me."

Mitchell nodded, it was all moving too fast and he was struggling to process everything. One minute he was feeding and despondent and the next he's in this plush bar with someone to solve all his problems. It was a lot to take in.

"So can I stay with you?" he asked but Wyndam shook his head.

"I will advise you but you must learn to trust yourself and to make your own choices. You've relied on others for too long. Did you know that Herrick has had people clearing up after you all the time you have been in London? You would have been dead by now without him. It's time for you to take responsibility."

Herrick? Mitchell was astonished. Herrick was still looking after him? Why had he never thought about the carnage he had left behind him? He realised how much he had to learn to survive. He'd take all the advice Wyndam could offer – whatever the price.

"You need to go back to Herrick but on your own terms and with your eyes open. Travel with him but choose your own way, pick your own kills. Resist his encouragements and learn from him about the organisation that keeps you safe. The contacts you will need to survive. Little Billy is a master of bureaucracy – you couldn't learn from anyone with a better grasp of trivial detail.

"Kill only when you need blood, not when you want it. Let the intervals between grow longer but you must always feed. Others have tried to stay clean and it always ends badly, with death for those closest to them but you can choose to feed rarely and carefully."

Wyndam drank the last of his wine.

"Most importantly, look for help and salvation always. It will find you. And not where you might expect."

He stood up ready to leave and Mitchell scrambled to his feet.

"I will see you again and always remember. If you need me I will come."

He reached out and took Mitchell's hand between both of his and Mitchell's mind was flooded with calm. A peace settled in his soul and he knew that he would survive.

Wyndam smiled and walked away, leaving Mitchell with Wyndam's scent lingering on his own skin, making him feel protected.

He watched as Wyndam greeted a women sitting alone nearby. Not classically pretty she had a clever, mobile face with large green eyes and silky dark hair and Wyndam bent to kiss her with an intensity that made a watching Mitchell shiver. She was human and in danger! She looked over at Mitchell and grinned, a conspiratorial cheeky smile that lit up her face and made her truly beautiful. She winked and Mitchell realised that she knew just what Wyndam was. He watched them walk out of the club, get into the Maserati and speed away, her head on Wyndam's shoulder, his arm holding her close.

That was what he wanted. To be accepted, to be loved for – or despite – what he really was. He wanted to have someone with whom he needn't hide. Someone who would love him and who would save him from himself.

He would return to London, there was unfinished business for him there but first...

First, he had to see Herrick.


	3. Chapter 3

This time it's all about Wyndam...

Please let me know what you think. Of course Being Human and the characters belong to Toby Whithouse, I'm just borrowing them...

The title comes from the George Orwell quote: _Who controls the past controls the future: who controls the present controls the past._

* * *

><p><strong>Who controls the past...<strong>

London, 1971

The young couple were obviously regulars at the Italian restaurant as the waiter brought them more wine without being asked and teased them about the passionate embrace that had distracted them from their food.

"How many years is it now? Only two? It's still too long for you to be acting like that!"

They laughed with him and went back to their food but their eyes never left each other and their hands stayed firmly entwined on the checked tablecloth. Luckily they could eat their pasta one handed! They had such an air of contentment that the other diners looked at them with smiles, so clearly in love that their displays of affection were not frowned on.

Wyndam watched them too from his seat at the bar. It was a small restaurant but he had been careful to sit out of Mitchell's line of sight and he had deliberately dulled his own vivid aura and dressed drably, so he could stay unnoticed. He could see Josie though, she had never met him so he could look at her unrecognised and he saw her eyes shining, happy just to be with Mitchell.

He reached out to Mitchell's mind, carefully so as not to make him aware and found the darkness now overlaid with happiness. He could sense a concern about Josie, she knew exactly what Mitchell was and he would always worry about her walking away. As would any man. Mitchell suddenly looked up, aware of something and Wyndam broke the connection instantly. He didn't want to be seen but he was impressed at how much Mitchell's perception had grown. He was truly becoming comfortable in his own skin, probably for the first time. Mitchell shook his head and looked around but his gaze slipped past Wyndam, not recognising this unprepossessing figure. He finished his brandy, ensuring that Mitchell remained unaware of his presence, gathered up his gloves and left, Mitchell and Josie happily oblivious to his interest.

The Maserati was parked a few streets away to make sure Mitchell didn't see it and he got in, ignoring the admiring looks at the sleek sports car. He himself attracted no interested glances when he didn't want to and right now he wanted to remain anonymous. He was glad to see Mitchell happy - for the moment - but he had concerns of his own to deal with.

His townhouse was in the most fashionable district and perfectly appointed, Wyndam cared little for the details but an appropriate environment had its uses. He ignored the tray of supper left for him before the fire and went straight up to the master suite.

Just one lamp was still lit, left on for him with Alexandra's usual concern for his comfort and it shed enough light over the large bed to see she was sleeping. Her long dark hair spread over the pillows and one slim arm was outstretched as if to welcome him.

He lifted his concealment and as she felt his presence her eyes opened, those big green eyes that always captivated him. They had little need for words, their minds were linked as much as was possible for a mortal and they were often in perfect accord. While Wyndam could feel her every thought and emotion she was only able to skim the surface of his complicated mind but tonight she felt a deep sadness in him that made her frown. Gently he put his finger to her lips, pushing away the sadness as far as he could, hiding it from her. He discarded his nondescript clothes and slid into bed and into her arms. His melancholy added poignancy to their pleasure and later as she slept against his chest he gazed at her peaceful face, letting the sadness return.

Alexandra had been with him for nearly ten years – almost a third of her lifetime but just a moment to Wyndam and she was tired. None could stay with him for long and she had lasted better than most, her fragile looks belied an inner strength and determination, the qualities that had attracted Wyndam to her. He could see new lines around her eyes, faint but growing, as were the blue shadows underneath that she normally concealed with her makeup. Her slim elegant body had become almost gaunt and she slept deeply, her body and mind exhausted by a lifestyle she wasn't born to. Wyndam knew it was time he let her go.

He let her sleep on, staying awake and watching over her for one last night. One last night of her warm skin against his and the jumble of her dreams in his own mind. He had thought she was his soulmate – but then he always did – and that they could be together forever but it could not be. Her human body could not sustain life with him and he couldn't bear to watch her get drawn and frail. For once he had left the curtains open against his preference for the dark which Alexandra humoured in him. He watched her through the moonlight and the darkness before dawn and then in the growing sunlight.

As the unaccustomed sun touched her face she woke and she knew instantly that something had changed. She looked at him, feeling again that overwhelming sadness and her eyes clouded with tears.

"It's time, isn't it?"

He nodded and started to reply but this time it was she who put her finger to his lips to shush him, she had no need to hear him say it.

"You are my life, Edgar." She blinked away the tears and managed to smile at him with some of her usual radiance. "I love you and I trust you. Just – please – be quick."

Effortlessly he picked her up and held her close, kissing her one last time before putting his mouth to her throat. Carefully, gently he pieced the skin and tasted her blood; greedy to drink the very essence of her, and her body went limp in his arms. He laid her back in the bed, settling her head on the pillows and tucked the covers around her. The wounds in her throat were so fine, so tiny they were hardly noticeable as he stood unmoving beside the bed for several hours, looking at her face, unwilling to leave her but knowing it was over.

Eventually, Wyndam went to his study and retrieved an envelope and put it on the bedside table along with the keys to the Maserati. Alexandra would sleep for most of the day as her body replaced the blood he had drunk and when she woke he would be just a distant memory and every trace of him would have been removed from the house. He held her face in both hands and took away the grief and pain she would feel, taking it into himself, clouding his own mind with loss and leaving her with just the happiness they had shared. She would open the envelope to find the deeds to the house and the investments he had made for her. She had always loved the extravagant Maserati and it pleased him to think she would drive it.

Finally he had to leave. Alexandra was still sleeping, her life with him already behind her as Wyndam left the house for the last time. He didn't look back but just started walking. His own pain of loss and mourning combined with the grief he had taken from Alexandra had to run their course. He walked for many miles around London eventually finding himself in Soho. The grief was bringing the rage he kept so well hidden to the surface and he needed to find a way to keep it at bay. A small drinking club was up ahead, members only, and during the day it was bound to be quiet. He walked up to the doorman and gave him money, more money than the man was going to argue with and went down the stairs to the small, dingy cellar.

He was right – it was almost deserted and he sat in the corner as was his habit. A hostess came over, forcing a smile and asking him what he wanted.

"Whisky. Bring the bottle."

His hard face and cold eyes meant she didn't argue and within moments he had the bottle in front of him. Sometimes alcohol would dull the rage but he drank glass after glass until most of the bottle had gone and it changed nothing. He looked around the bar, there was only one other customer and the hostess was sat talking to the barman. A younger girl came down the steps, ready to start work as she was wearing the same short black dress as the woman who had served Wyndam. She looked at him and smiled, he was clearly a cut above their usual daytime drinker.

She sat at the bar with the other staff but kept looking over at him and when the bottle was empty he caught her eye and she walked across to his table.

"Another drink?" she asked, hand on hip and smiling hopefully as Wyndam considered and his eyes flashed black.

"Why not. Why not indeed"

He was on his feet and beside her in an instant, lifting her, burying his fangs in her throat before she could make a sound and he drained her in a moment. It wasn't enough. The barman started to reach under the bar – probably for the baseball bat he kept for trouble makers but he was too slow. Wyndam vaulted the bar and ripped out his throat before catching hold of the older hostess. He savoured her utter terror it before he drank from her too, more slowly this time, enjoying the hot salty blood as it fed his rage and fury.

Dropping her body he looked around. The only other customer was drunk and half asleep and Wyndam reached out as he passed and broke his neck before he headed back up the stairs.

"Good day sir." The doorman waved him off as Wyndam strode away, touching his lips with a handkerchief to ensure there was no blood visible. He smiled as he hailed a taxi.

* * *

><p><strong>Northumberland Coast, 2000<strong>

The old stone house was so remote that even the most dedicated ramblers rarely walked through the grounds. Set high above the shore it commanded panoramic views of a sea that could be rough and bleak or soft and welcoming depending on the season. The local people who were paid to keep the house clean, well maintained and the grounds tidy knew little about their employer. A business man, they had gathered, who travelled a lot and came to the house for perfect peace and isolation. On the few occasions they saw him he was courteous although not friendly and he had politely rebuffed all attempts to involve him in the community. He paid exceptionally well, though, and that bought him both loyalty and privacy.

What none of them had ever noticed were the clever alterations made to the house many years ago. A secret room had been carved out of the top floor, a concealed doorway from the master bedroom lead to a small square space furnished with a single chair. The high backed leather chair was placed in the exact centre of the room facing a large window, hidden from observers on the ground by the fancy masonry of a long dead master builder.

It was here that Wyndam would sit and stare at the sea, watching the light on the waves and the eternal ebb and flow of the tides. He would sit for days, weeks and sometimes months on end, needing nothing, motionless, lost in the sea and the sky and saved from his own thoughts. Safe for a while from his memories.

After he had left Alexandra he had sat for almost a year, desperate to escape the pain of his loss, a pain that grew stronger and harder to bear every time he lost a lover. Losing Alexandra had raised a fury that had sent him on a trail of blood and destruction for weeks afterwards. He prided himself on keeping the rage controlled, on his icy calm and rationality and to have killed so much and so freely was something he had not allowed himself to do for many years. He had forgotten the deep joy it brought and he had had to forget it all over again.

Wyndam knew that he was seen as evil, the terrifying face of the Old Ones and he helped to foster that illusion himself. In truth he was not evil, but neither was he good. He had lived so unimaginably long that he had no morals or ethics that could be judged by anyone else, mortal or immortal. He did as he pleased, killed when he needed to and loved when someone caught his attention. He had loved humans and vampires, men and women, some for hours and some for years but none could walk with him for very long. He no longer recruited his companions, for many centuries his blood had been too strong and he would kill a mortal in burning agony if he tried.

Mostly he was content. Always he was restless, seeking new amusements, new people and new pleasures. Sometimes he was lonely.

Often his thoughts turned to Mitchell, trying to identify just why he kept returning to him. Mitchell annoyed him; he was young and reckless and still had not found the independence that a vampire needed to survive. He had relied on Herrick for far too long and still did, probably always would. He had found solace with Josie for years but that had ended, although not badly, and he was now vacillating between humans and vampires as companions. What next?

He had helped Mitchell through dark times and had also seen him at times just because he wanted to. When Mitchell wasn't mired in the angst he seemed to specialise in and was well away from Herrick he was good company, funny and charming, especially now Mitchell was less scared of him and what he could do (although he was still wary, as was wise.) Wyndam found him strangely engaging and since Alexandra there was no one else he wanted to talk to. Although it was Alexandra that had unwittingly been the cause the only time he had deceived Mitchell.

Maybe he saw something of his own younger self there. There was an effortless charisma emanating from Mitchell, he used it to collect women but had never related it to the influence he could feel from Wyndam, never developed it for his own ends. He would have been a formidable opponent to Herrick if he had tried, maybe even an equal to Wyndam one day. Wyndam sighed; sadly it seemed now that Mitchell never would fulfil that potential, he just wouldn't have time.

* * *

><p><strong>Manchester, 1991<strong>

Mitchell put his arm around Belinda and kissed her cheek.

"I'll get more drinks, don't go anywhere." She smiled back and went back to watching the crowded dance floor. Mitchell would never dance and although he hadn't said so on their few dates she knew he didn't like it when she danced without him.

He wasn't away long, he had a knack of getting the immediate attention of the bar staff. As they drank he listened to her talk about her week, enjoying her chatter about her studies as well as her lively sense of the ridiculous. Mitchell had grown bored of the vacuous women that had been such easy prey when he was younger and Belinda was studying law. At the top of her year and with a bright future ahead of her she studied hard, long late hours in the library which suited him. Between their dates he could keep in with Herrick but Belinda was an escape and even after a short time he had high hopes that he would be able to tell her the real truth about himself. Another Josie? Only time would tell.

"That guy keeps looking at you" Belinda nudged him, nodding discreetly over towards the bar. "Do you know him? Or does he fancy you!"

Mitchell squinted through the smoke and crowds at the man sitting at the very end of the bar. He didn't look familiar although there was something about him... Dressed in black leather jacket and motorbike boots with battered Levis he looked completely relaxed and was attracting a certain amount of attention from the women around him. Mitchell realised that Belinda was still looking at him as well, seemingly unable to look away. Irritated to lose her attention he picked up his drink but suddenly realised he could smell that unique scent, cutting through the cigarette smoke and sweat and stale beer. Could it be Wyndam? He got up and walked over, it couldn't be he'd never seen Wyndam other than dressed formally before with his hair swept back not flopping over his forehead as it was now. This was not the Wyndam he knew, but that scent. It was unmistakable.

"Hello John, I thought I'd surprise you." Wyndam was chuckling at Mitchell's astonished face. "We've always met on my territory before so I thought it was time I came to yours."

He handed Mitchell a bottle of beer and he took it, still trying to marry up this casual Wyndam with the usual stern faced, dark suited, almost austere figure he'd met before. It seemed he could change his nature with his clothes, the unnatural stillness had gone and even his voice was altered, the words less formal and his accent stronger. It had never occurred to Mitchell that he could do this, blend in wherever he wanted to.

"Introduce me to your friend, John." Wyndam got up to go over to where Belinda was sitting. For a moment Mitchell wanted to say no but Wyndam had always said he could trust him and anyway, how would he stop him? He introduced Belinda and Wyndam took her hand and kissed it – the old fashioned courtly gesture somehow working magic on Belinda who clearly thought him rather charming. Not to mention very attractive...

They chatted, Wyndam was very interested in Belinda's law studies and they were soon deep in a discussion of a historic case she was investigating – one that she had no idea he remembered happening. Feeling a little left out Mitchell headed to the bar for more drinks.

"You'll know me again" Belinda said flippantly as the conversation paused. Wyndam was looking at her so intently with his bright blue eyes that it was making her feel a little breathless.

"I'm sorry if I stared. You remind me of someone, an old friend." He explained. "I've never seen such green eyes on anyone else. She was beautiful too"

Belinda was flattered, she felt such a strong attraction to this man and she hoped Mitchell would hurry back before she made a fool of herself.

"What was her name, your friend, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Alexandra" Wyndam told her and a strange expression crossed her familiar green eyes.

"What a strange coincidence – that was my mother's name."

"Was?" It was the only word that Wyndam could process, he hadn't looked into Belinda's mind, there had seemed to be no need but now he needed to know more. Could she really be Alexandra's daughter? His Alexandra?

"She died when I was a child, I don't really remember her but my father says I have her eyes."

"I'm so sorry" Wyndam murdered, taking a chance to put his hand over hers in sympathy.

"It's fine; it was a long time ago." Belinda didn't pull her hand away, and Wyndam took the opportunity to gently probe her thoughts. He saw images, like faded photographs, of Alexandra, just as he remembered her but seen through the eyes of a child. Looking further he saw she looked increasingly drawn and exhausted and then she disappeared leaving loss behind, a loss that was part of Belinda but that no longer hurt.

Mitchell arrived back and looked rather sharply at their joined hands and Belinda blushed and pulled hers away. He could see that Wyndam had withdrawn from them, the stillness had returned and his eyes were opaque but Belinda didn't notice. Wyndam had realised that he had left it too late, that Alexandra was already dying when he left and that although she had married and had a child he had killed her, just as if he had stayed. His grief was renewed and sharp, but this time he would not let the rage win.

He watched Mitchell and Belinda, as they laughed together; saw Belinda's hand on Mitchell's thigh, his arm round her shoulders keeping her close. He knew that he couldn't see Belinda go through what Alexandra had. Mitchell was younger and much closer to being human than he had been but he would hurt her none the less. He would not let that happen.

He realised that Belinda was trying to persuade Mitchell to dance with her and he was refusing, he never danced.

"Dance with me instead then, just this once" he asked her, looking across at Mitchell "before I leave you to this lucky man."

Mitchell didn't argue, he had been well trained to trust Wyndam not to do him any harm and he watched as Wyndam took Belinda's hand and led her over to the dance floor, just as a slow song began. He took her in his arms, holding her gently but not so close that she would panic and began to work his magic, whispering to her, letting his enchanting fragrance fill her senses. Her arms tightened around him and he guided her to the other side of the floor, out of Mitchell's view. Before the song had ended she was completely in thrall to him, she was young and human and it was easy. His suggestion that they get some fresh air was welcomed and she held tightly onto him as he led her through the crowded club to the door. The cold air made her stumble but did not break the spell and he drew her into a dark alley, stoking her hair as she pressed her body hard against him.

He wouldn't kiss her, as much as she tried to tempt him, and he tipped his head back, looking at the stars as he sent a silent vision straight into Mitchell's head and felt his furious response. In what seemed to be only moments Mitchell exploded into the alley, raging to find Belinda entwined around Wyndam and Wyndam bent over her with his mouth to her neck. Mitchell's eyes flashed to black and his fangs were bared as he dragged her away only to see there was no blood and Wyndam's eyes were their usual piercing blue.

Belinda screamed at the sight of Mitchell, a monster in the body of the man she thought she could love and she pushed past him and ran, terrified and disbelieving. Mitchell went to go after her but Wyndam held him back and no matter how much Mitchell struggled and fought he could not break free.

"It's over. Let her go." Wyndam's voice was soft but compelling and Mitchell stopped struggling. Wyndam held his arms and looked into Mitchell's angry eyes as he continued. "You would have hurt her, maybe killed her. She wasn't right, not strong enough for you, not like Josie. You know that."

Confused, his anger slipping away, Mitchell nodded, it didn't sound quite right but Wyndam was so convincing and in his mind a doubt had been planted. He would have killed her, he realised, maybe not tonight, but it would have happened.

"Come. Let's go back inside. Plenty more fish in the sea." Wyndam led Mitchell back into the club, he would drink with him, find some women who wouldn't be missed so they could feed but none of that was important. He had saved Belinda from Mitchell, from the same fate as her mother.

Alexandra's daughter was safe.

* * *

><p><strong>Northumberland Coast, 2000<strong>

Wyndam knew that Mitchell was living with Carl in Vienna now, getting clean, and he smiled at the notion. Carl was one of the few younger vampires that he respected, but the notion of living blood free was just a fantasy. Wyndam knew it was impossible. Carl thought he would always be clean and his human lover would be safe but he was wrong. The blood would win. It always did.

At least Mitchell was safe with Carl; they had a deep affection for each other although their brief fling was long past. It had been a distraction after Mitchell had walked away from Josie and Carl had kept him safe, comforted him and let him recover. Mitchell had never mentioned it; he still thought he could keep secrets from Wyndam not realising that he could read his every thought and dream.

The time was coming when Mitchell would need him for the last time and Wyndam would need all his strength to face that. Sat in his isolated eyrie watching the sea, Wyndam could feel the darkness gathering. There would still be time left for Mitchell to finally find a place he felt he belonged but it was part of the route to the dark times that were approaching. He could not – would not - intervene. Destiny, fate, call it what you will, Wyndam knew that Mitchell had to tread the path that was planned for him, however hard it would prove to be.

He had to let Mitchell go on alone now, but he knew they would meet one more time.

One final time.


	4. Chapter 4

The final part, Mitchell, Herrick and – of course – more Wyndam. I'm missing Wyndam already; I suspect he has more stories to tell... if you want to hear them!

Please let me know what you think. It bears repeating that Being Human and the characters belong to Toby Whithouse, I'm just borrowing them.

The title comes from the George Orwell quote: _Who controls the past controls the future: who controls the present controls the past._

* * *

><p><strong>Who controls the past...<strong>

**Dunraven Bay, 2011**

Do not kill your maker.

Staring out to sea Mitchell tried to reconcile himself with what he had just done. He knew it was unforgivable but he was almost beyond caring. The vampire world wasn't big on rules and regulations but there was one that, although unspoken, was generally accepted. You never kill the one who made you.

He had always loved Herrick in some strange twisted way and he was grateful to him for many, many things. He also hated him for what he was and what he had tried to do through the good and bad years. After all, love and hate are so close; the opposite emotion, indifference, had never been the case for him and Herrick and never could be. They were too close, too entwined and Mitchell could not bear the thought that they would have to go round on the wheel of their own making again and again and again. There had only been one thing left that he could do to finish it.

But it still hurt.

Even though Herrick had smiled at him at the very end, had forgiven him as he had always done it had been the hardest thing Mitchell had ever done. In a way, it had been harder than telling Annie the truth, harder than loosing Josie the first time, harder even than when he lost her for good when she gave her life to help him. Herrick had been a part of him for so many years. Mitchell was what he was, who he was, because of Herrick, and not just because he recruited him. There had been good times after all, more than he really cared to remember.

He sighed. He still had things to do and he pulled his coat closer round himself to try and get warm as he turned back toward the car. There was a motionless figure standing at the top of the causeway, and Mitchell was not surprised that Wyndam would appear right here, right now. He seemed to know when he was needed or when Mitchell was desperate. Sometimes he arrived for no reason and they would spend time together, talking, drinking, sometimes even hunting. Mitchell always welcomed his arrival, although after all these years he still couldn't say he knew him. Unlike Herrick it seemed that Wyndam would help when he could because he wanted to, there was no payment required. Mitchell had no idea about the rest of Wyndam's life, he didn't refuse to talk about his past he just ignored any curiosity as if all that mattered was the present. Mitchell no longer listened to the other vampire's gossip about his power and influence, Wyndam remained a mystery. It seemed best that way.

Exhausted and frozen, Mitchell couldn't find the strength to start walking up the slope but for the first time ever Wyndam came to him. He said nothing, just opened his arms and held Mitchell close, warming him, enclosing him in the feeling of home that he always brought and the heady scent that was unique to him. Mitchell's frozen body relaxed and his arms went round Wyndam and he wept for what he had done and for what he still had to do.

Wyndam just held him, he could feel Mitchell's distress, knew what it had taken for him to kill Herrick and he stayed still, waiting until Mitchell moved. Finally Mitchell pulled away, sniffing and wiping his eyes and his nose on his sleeves. Wyndam shook his head in the usual patient way he did whenever Mitchell acted like a child, but he smiled and handed him a handkerchief.

"Use this and no, I don't want it back." Mitchell did as he was told, as always, and he wiped his face. It didn't help a great deal, his eyes were red and he was still shivering in the cold wind.

Wyndam led the way back up the causeway, pausing beside Mitchell's old Volvo, seeing Herrick's stolen police uniform still inside. Neither of them wanted to deal with that right now and getting in the car was unthinkable.

Wyndam had a taxi waiting at the top of the cliff and the driver took them to a nearby hotel without being asked. Wyndam had clearly planned this in advance, he was nothing if not organised. He paid off the car and led Mitchell to a large comfortable room where a fire was burning and a tray of food and drink waiting for them. Mitchell was totally disinterested but Wyndam guided him into a chair by the fire and poured him hot coffee and brandy and watched while he finished the first cup. He poured again, adding another generous measure of brandy to the strong coffee and put it into Mitchell's hands, wrapping his cold fingers around the warm china.

He pulled up another chair close to him and waited.

Mitchell stared into the fire for what seemed to be hours. He drank the coffee and the brandy as it was handed to him and gradually a little colour came back to his face and he stopped shivering. He spoke without looking up.

"I don't regret it. It had to end. I don't expect you to approve."

Wyndam shrugged, approval or disapproval meant nothing to him. He took Mitchell's hands in his and Mitchell finally looked at him. He felt the familiar trespass as Wyndam looked into his mind but this time the feeling changed and he realised that Wyndam was letting him see his own thoughts. He could see that Wyndam truly did understand what he had done and that he could see the despair that engulfed him and just how much he wanted to lift that darkness. Mitchell finally understood how all the random events fitted together and that he could not change his future, he had to follow his path to its end. Wyndam could not change that, much as he would wish to. He had lived with the forewarning of Mitchell's current final despair for many years.

Wyndam gently closed his mind from Mitchell, he wanted him to see that he cared, as he had rarely cared for anyone before but he had only allowed Mitchell to see those surface thoughts. To see any deeper into Wyndam's ancient memories would have driven him mad.

He could still see the dark despair in Mitchell but it was now edged with a sense of certainly. He knew what Mitchell had left to do and he knew it was right. He left one final thought and obediently Mitchell's eyes closed, his head tipped back and he slept.

Wyndam watched him as he slept and listened to his restless dreams.

He dreamed of Herrick.

* * *

><p><strong>Bristol, two years earlier<strong>

The reception office at the funeral parlour was empty but Wyndam could hear voices further back in the building. Walking through the cavernous rooms and bare corridors the few young vampires who came across him shrank away, feeling his power and not wanting to challenge him. He was getting closer to Herrick, he could smell him, the greed and ambition and the madness and now the vampires were stronger, part of the inner circle. One hissed at him as he passed and without pausing he caught him by the neck, wrenching off his head and leaving his body lying. Another came at him with a stake but Wyndam just smiled and plucked it from his hands, turning it back and plunging it into his attackers chest.

One more door and this was Herrick's lair, two vampires were guarding him. He still held the stake, stained with the last guard's blood and he barely looked as he destroyed these two in an instant, not giving them to chance to move. He walked into the bare room and sat in the chair placed in front of the desk, looking completely comfortable and relaxed. Untouchable.

"So Billy, what have you done with Seth?" he asked as he wiped blood from his hands on a handkerchief. "It is unlike you to be without your misguidedly devoted fan club."

Herrick smiled as if he'd been expecting Wyndam, staying sitting in his imposing chair behind his grand desk.

"Wyndam, my dear man. I do wish I could say it is lovely to see you!"

Wyndam smiled and sat, silent, looking at Herrick who became increasingly uncomfortable and unable to meet his eyes. He shuffled some paper on the desk and finally had to speak, not able to bear the silence any longer.

"So what brings you to here to my humble city?"

The emphasis was unmistakable, Wyndam had lowered himself to visit Herrick and he preened slightly at this demonstration of his power. Wyndam's face was like stone, blue eyes cold and Herrick started to regret opening his mouth. A rare misjudgement for him, he had always reluctantly deferred to Wyndam before.

"I suppose this is about Mitchell" he blustered. "He asked for it but he survived you know, munched on a few nurses I expect. Maybe even on his pet dog..."

He trailed off, it didn't seem possible but Wyndam's face was sterner then ever and now Herrick was truly scared. He'd heard rumours that Wyndam and Mitchell were close but had ignored them as idle gossip. After all, Mitchell would have told him. He told him everything.

"You know why I am here." Wyndam's voice was quiet but icy and Herrick shivered. "I told you what would happen if you made an heir."

Herrick's red face blanched. He knew the punishment of the Old Ones for creating an heir without their knowledge but he thought he was safe, unnoticed. It was beyond brutal and there was no appeal, no chance of escape. It was eternal and unendurable.

There was a noise from behind Herrick's desk and a hissing, spitting Cara launched herself across the room at Wyndam, this man who had dared to threaten her Dark Lord. Wyndam put out a lazy arm and caught her, dangling her by the scruff of the neck like a naughty kitten as she continued to hiss at him.

"This?" He asked incredulously. "This is your heir? Oh Billy, Billy... now what have you done."

He threw Cara into the corner, not hard enough to really hurt her and pointed at her. "Do not move." Even Cara could see through her blind devotion to Herrick that this was not the time to argue and she curled up on the floor, still muttering to herself.

Wyndam looked over at Herrick and smiled at him, genuinely amused. He hadn't thought that Herrick could get something so wrong.

"So, has she strong blood?" he asked. "Have you fed her and guided her, instructed her in the many mysteries? Or did you just need a cleaner? Someone to make tea? Look at her - she is quite insane!"

Cara took umbrage at this and would have pounced on Wyndam but Herrick shook his head at her.

"I think that's a little ungentlemanly" he replied. "Good heirs are thin on the ground nowadays and Cara is quite capable of doing what is required of her."

Wyndam laughed, the more he heard the more he realised that Herrick had no idea of what an heir actually meant. Mitchell had had a lucky escape. He had taken folklore and gossip and connected them with invention. He had certainly managed to create something, but a true heir she was not. She had just been recruited, part of her was still human and she was still very weak. An heir needs the blood of their master, fed over and over so they are almost indistinguishable. If they are strong enough then they can take the blood of the Old Ones as well but this child had neither. If she had help and enough of Herrick's garbled knowledge she might be able to resurrect Herrick if the need arose but he would not be whole. He would be infected with her mania, her madness and far from the man he was. He wouldn't survive long, even if he did find his true nature, she just didn't have the strength of mind or body to make him complete. There might be flashes of his old self but they would be unsustainable and the restored Herrick would be easy prey.

Wyndam considered. He would leave Herrick be. Frankly, Cara was punishment enough.

His attention left Cara and she slid across the floor back to Herrick, sitting beside him, wrapped around his legs, purring at him and shooting evil looks at Wyndam. Herrick reached down and absently patted her head.

"Perhaps I can convince the Old Ones to let this go, given the state of her" Wyndam said "but first I need you to tell me what is going on with Mitchell?"

Herrick looked wary, he had no idea what connection there was between Wyndam and Mitchell, he had no certain knowledge that they had ever met again after that evening in Claridges. But he had watched how Wyndam reacted at that meeting; he had looked at Mitchell in a way he had not seen before. He had enchanted and bewitched him. He needed to be careful what he said.

"Mitchell defied us, he killed Seth." Wyndam raised a sceptical eyebrow. "Well, he didn't actually kill him but his woman did, a child he created and abandoned. Then he killed her. And he set his dog on us. And a ghost."

"Little doggie" sniggered Cara but they ignored her.

Herrick paused, assessing Wyndam although what he could see in that stern face was a mystery.

"An example had to be made but he still lives. We will meet later and that will decide matters. I can't let him go, he was going to rule at my side and such deception cannot go unpunished. After all, I was giving him South Amer..." Herrick trailed off, in his fury at Mitchell he had forgotten to whom he was speaking, the Old Ones were in South America.

Wyndam let it go – he already knew exactly what had happened. Herrick had cleverly told him no real lies but he could read the little man's bluster. He also knew that it was full moon tonight and it didn't take a genius to work out what was going to happen. Herrick was carried away with his power and distracted by his new bride and he hadn't planned with his usual thoroughness. Wyndam had no concerns about Mitchell anymore; this plan of Herrick's was doomed to failure. He may need Cara sooner than he thought.

Wyndam stood up and Cara pulled away from Herrick, hissing and spitting at him, trying to get away from Herrick as he kept a firm hold of her arm.

"Don't you be nasty to my dear dark lord. He's worth four of you any day. We'll deal with that Mitchell with his hair and his face – he can't match my darling." She looked besottedly at Herrick, stroking his face and covering him with rather sloppy kisses.

Herrick was proud of her audacity but at the same time rather embarrassed and just a bit scared of her challenging Wyndam.

Wyndam left laughing. How unlike Herrick not to have the last word. Maybe he had underestimated Cara.

* * *

><p><strong>Bristol, 2011 <strong>

Mitchell had slept for hours and woke to see Wyndam still sitting beside him, unmoving, the fire almost out. There was one last thing that Wyndam could help him to do and he didn't need to say it, he already knew what it was.

Wyndam was driving yet another glossy sports car, an Alfa this time, black with tinted windows and he still drove far too fast. They were in Bristol in no time, passing the hospital and the many familiar places Mitchell didn't want to look at. The funeral parlour was still blackened and boarded up and they paused there. Someone had left flowers, a bright splash of colour against the stained brickwork but there was no card, no name.

It seemed that Mitchell's thoughts were always now in Wyndam's mind, he couldn't shut them out. He could hear echoes of Daisy and Ivan, Herrick, of course and of Lucy, Lauren and Josie. Mitchell was saying goodbye to his ghosts.

Finally they arrived at Windsor Terrace and parked opposite Annie's pink house. It was empty, Owen was mad, certified, and the ownership had got complicated.

"Why don't you go inside" said Wyndam but Mitchell shook his head, he was close enough. He didn't think he could bear to actually see the empty rooms.

"This is where I thought I could be human" he told Wyndam, staring at the house. "This is where it worked, here with George and Annie. This was home." He blinked away tears.

"Until I destroyed it."

He got out of the car and leaned against it, smoking, gazing at the house. Wyndam joined him, watching out for curious neighbours who might recognise Mitchell but the street was eerily deserted. Mitchell talked about the times he had spent with George and Annie, the funny moments and the moving ones, the minutia of their life. Wyndam wasn't really listening; as much as he cared for Mitchell this effort to stay clean, to try and be human was entirely meaningless to him. Human lives were trivial.

Mitchell's anecdotes finally ground to a halt when all that was left were the stories he didn't want to remember, never mind tell. He knew Wyndam was not really interested and he was suddenly angry. He could have helped him, stopped him before he ended up destroying everything and he turned on Wyndam, forgetting all he had learned from Wyndam's thoughts.

"Why didn't you stop me? What good was all your _help_?" He was bitter and sneering and Wyndam could feel the spikes of his anger. Mitchell lashed out, hitting Wyndam as hard as his vampire strength would let him. It left no mark on that familiar face and he lost control, hitting, punching, desperate to hurt someone so he could avoid the knowledge that it was he that deserved punishment. Wyndam let him do it, it wouldn't hurt him, not physically anyway. He'd been expecting the anger and he bore the onslaught without moving or reacting until Mitchell slowed, his shoulders dropped and he stared at the ground.

Wyndam put out a hand and tipped up his face so he was looking at him.

"Don't blame me for what you did. For what you didn't do. I could have run your life as Herrick did but would that have been any better?" He sighed, he wanted Mitchell to understand. "What I did for you was more than I have done for anyone else. You have more of me than I have ever given."

Wyndam took Mitchell's hands and looked at them. The skin was scraped and grazed from the blows that would have killed a human but left no marks on him. He lifted Mitchell's hand to his mouth and licked away the traces of dried blood. He tongue felt like molten metal on Mitchell's skin and he saw that his hand was healed and whole again. Fascinated and unable to look away he watched Wyndam lift his right hand. This was cut more deeply, fresh blood still oozing from the cuts and this time when Wyndam tasted Mitchell's blood his eyes flashed black. He'd imagined this in the past, how it would taste, how it would feel but he had put the thought firmly away with his usual control. Now he was lost. He wanted – needed - more and he turned the hand, looking at the pulse beating in Mitchell's wrist. Carefully he broke the skin, looking up at Mitchell to see that his eyes were also jet and fixed on his. He took one draught, he wanted more, he wanted it all but quite deliberately he closed the wounds. Mitchell looked bereft as Wyndam let him go but Wyndam stepped away, his eyes dark blue with sorrow.

"In another life, in another time maybe. But not now." His eyes held Mitchell's.

"It's too late."

Mitchell nodded – he had no words to tell Wyndam what he felt and that he was truly grateful but he knew that he need not speak. Wyndam already knew.

Mitchell turned and walked away.

He didn't look back.

* * *

><p><strong>Honolulu Heights, 2011 <strong>

Wyndam leaned on the car, waiting, motionless. The other vampires posing as police officers kept their distance; they were scared of him and quick to do his bidding but today was different. Wyndam looked more human right now than they had ever seen him. They still wouldn't come close unless they had to, after all it could be another of his many tricks.

He knew it was almost time; he could feel that Mitchell was at the end of his endurance but he also knew that George wouldn't go through with it, whatever Mitchell said he wanted. Mitchell was so sure George would do as he asked but he was wrong. When it came to it George would not knowingly kill - murder - his best friend. He would want to try and help, find another way. Wyndam could feel what Mitchell was feeling and the depth of his certainty that this must be the end for him cancelled out everything else. All the vampire instincts for survival at all costs had gone. There was no other way.

Mitchell had roamed for days after he had left Bristol, revisiting old haunts, even his family home in Ireland. The buildings were long gone and his family had died out but the countryside was unchanged from his childhood. Wyndam had stayed away from him, he had had business to attend to, business the Old Ones had asked him to manage. He knew Mitchell was returning and he knew that he was going to George. Now was the time he was needed and he had been waiting since he saw Mitchell invited back into his former home.

The werewolves were a simple matter for Wyndam, their human natures were easy for him to read and he could manipulate George with no effort. He knew exactly what buttons he would press to force him into action. Normally he would never go near werewolves and ghosts but this was for Mitchell. He would spin his web of words and Mitchell would be set free as he wanted. He just needed to leave them so scared of him that they wouldn't come after him later. Not that he was worried about the harm they could do, he could kill the wolves without a qualm, destroy the ghost, but he wanted nothing more to do with anything from Mitchell's life once he was gone. He'd calculated the level of threat – no werewolf or ghost would dare to challenge him after the tale he would tell. He knew they would run and hide.

He walked up to the door of the house, and paused on the step. He had no illusions about how terrifying he could be and that even after all this time he could convince Mitchell he meant every word. He reached out for the last time to the mind he knew so well and erased all the good memories of their meetings, leaving only the fear. It was easy, Mitchell was exhausted, ready to go, but he left a final trace of himself in Mitchell's soul, giving him a sense of peace. His last gift.

He took a deep breath and pushed open the door. He knew what he had to do.

For Mitchell.


End file.
